


A Happier Time

by aksarah



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M, Stancest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-05-25 06:00:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6183412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aksarah/pseuds/aksarah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immediately following the end of Weirdmageddon, the Pines family work to get Stan back his memories... Though there are some Ford would rather he forgot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wondered how the shack got fixed so quickly between Thursday (defeating Bill) and Saturday (the party), and this sort of mutated out of that question (which will be answered).

            In the aftermath of Weirdmageddon, most folks went home to their magically restored houses, pulled their loved ones close and went almost immediately to sleep. The Pines family was together, but both their home and their patriarch were in ruin. Once they discovered his memories could be teased back from oblivion, they quickly and happily set to work restoring his identity.

            Mabel turned the page. “And this is the time we lost the Shack to Gideon and had to crash at Soos’s Grandma’s house!” she chimed.

            Soos gasped. “Oh man! I gotta go check on my Abuelita! The last time I saw her she was a recliner!” He took a few steps toward the door then a few back toward Stan. “I… uh…”

            “Go. Take care of your gramma,” Stan waved at him almost dismissively, just as he would have had he had his senses.

            Soos beamed at him. “You got it, Mr. Pines! I’ll be back tomorrow, first thing!” Dipper and Mabel hugged him, Ford thanked him, and he wound his way through the detritus and out of the shack. As the heavyset young man passed through the doorway, a piece of crown moulding clattered to the floor and Ford sighed. Although it was only just getting dark, they were all considerably more exhausted than they had ever been. “Ok, no one goes upstairs,” he ordered. “We’ll sleep in the basement for safety’s sake.” He asked the children to gather as many blankets and pillows from the first floor as they could muster and take them to the second basement level. Once they were out of sight, Ford pulled a chair up in front of the dilapidated yellow arm chair and sat heavily in front of his brother. He groaned and winced, having forgotten to take care with his injuries, most of which were dealt by Bill himself.

            “You ok, Sixer?” Stan asked, raising his brows in concern.

            His nickname was like a healing balm for his soul and allowed Ford to relax a little bit. “I’ve been better. Nothing time won’t heal. How do you feel, Stanley?”

            Stan rubbed his hands over his arms and stretched his back in the chair. “I guess I’m ok. I think my back always hurts, anyway. Seems familiar. Heh,” he pointed to a photo in the scrapbook in his lap. “Looks like I’m groanin’ about it right here.”

            Ford stood and indeed, Stan, wearing a glittering gold tracksuit, looked incredibly annoyed with one hand pressed to his lumbar spine and the other balled into a fist, shaking it at someone off-camera. He chuckled. “What in the world were you wearing that atrocity for?”

            “I lost a bet,” he answered without missing a beat. “I left the kids in charge of the Shack for a weekend and fucked off to California to be on a gameshow. Lost. Real shame. Got to take a Cash Shower, though.”

            Ford shook his head. “I have no idea what that means.”

            Stan chuckled softly, flipping the page. “You were… you weren’t here,” he said, almost questioningly, but if he wondered why or was just conning his brother, he kept it to himself.

            Ford opened his mouth to explain that he was still lost when these photos were taken earlier that summer, but thought better of it. There would be a time for the bad memories. It could wait. He needed to distract Stan and thought perhaps he could flip the pages toward the end of the book, claiming he wanted to show him something specific, but the brothers had been so distant, he could not think of one occasion that would have documented a happy time they’d shared. “A happy time…” he breathed, told Stan to stay put, and jogged out of the room, jumping carefully around debris.

            In a few moments he returned with a book. Ford pulled his chair closer to Stan’s and cracked it open. “Glass Shard High, class of 1972,” he said and raised his brows.

            “Glass… our home town,” Stan whispered and took the book into his lap. He flipped through pages of black and white photos of teachers, sports teams, and academic clubs. “Where are we? Have I ever seen this before?”

            Ford’s face fell. “Uh… I’m not sure.” He snatched the book back and flipped through quickly, trying to find the senior photos. They were taken in the fall and the book was printed before Stan left so he was sure they were both there. “Here!” he crowed and turned the page to face him.

            Stan smiled wide. “Hey! Look at this! Man, I was something, wasn’t I?”

            “You _are,”_ Ford said quietly. The two young men in the photos, Stanley to the left of Stanford, seemed impossibly young and distant. Stanford’s smile was most likely false, taught and nervous. Stanley’s was a mirror of the one he currently wore--wide and unabashed. Ford took a deep breath and let his shoulders drop, then Stan started turning pages again.

            “That’s it, huh?” Stan said, flipping past pictures of young men and women palling around, going to the prom, playing in sports. Not one other photo of the Pines Twins had been published in the yearbook. “We didn’t have much friends, huh?” His finger traced a photo of the star quarterback, Louis Krampelter and he frowned.

            “No,” Ford whispered. “We didn’t really have any friends, except... each other.”

            Stan’s mind whirred. His memories had, until this point, been trickling back in bit by bit as Mabel, Dipper, Soos, and Ford fed him stories. Each memory was tied to others and like ice crystals forming on a window pane, they spidered out, locking down even more than they originally suggested. Now, it was as if a dripping faucet had opened and images flooded in. His brother, just a young teen, in the room they shared, blushing cheeks, smiling eyes, shoulders loose and carefree, his face--very close. Very, _very_ close. Then they were working together, hammering, sawing, fixing up a boat--the Stan ‘O War, yet a derelict and firmly on the beach. They shared a soda under the hot, summer sun, only being able to afford one. The visions kept shifting, flying by in an instant. Ford was in tears, having been bullied yet again and Stan was swearing he’d kill the guy who hurt him.

            Suddenly, Stan was yanked back to reality as he heard a tell-tale sharp intake of breath coming from his brother. His heart flew into his throat. The yearbook dropped to the ground and Stan launched himself from the chair, kneeling down and pulling Ford into his arms. “Don’t cry, Ford! I got ya! I’m right here!”

            Ford had only been sniffling, the pain of their separation four decades before taking his exhausted mind by surprise. He would never have allowed anyone to see such a display under normal circumstances, but his emotions were frayed and raw. His brother’s arms wrapped around him and he disintegrated. Ford clutched at Stanley as if he were just a little boy and bawled into his chest, begging his forgiveness, praising his bravery, and uttering those three words that nearly gave his twin a heart attack. Stan pressed him close and ran his hand through his hair and stroked his back, calming and shushing him. “I’ll always protect you. It’s ok. It’s ok now, Ford. It’s ok. I love you, too.”

            From the shadows of the doorway, Dipper and Mabel watched the scene, holding each other close and tried very hard not to make a sound. “It’s gonna be ok, Mabel,” Dipper whispered and hugged his sister. She bit her lip, nodded, and cried silent tears for the beauty displayed before her.


	2. Chapter 2

            It was a tight fit in the space in the center of Ford’s study on the second subterranean level, but as the four wanted to be as close together as possible, no one complained about the cramped quarters. Mabel spooned her pet pig and Stan spooned her. Dipper set his pillow facing his sister and Waddles, and Ford paced around the room, obsessively adjusting a book here, some papers there. In moments, Stan, Mabel, and the pig were sound asleep (Stan sawed away, no one seemed to mind), but Dipper sat up and watched his great uncle as if willing him with his mind to rest. It wasn’t working, so he got up and stood in his path.

            “Gr-great Uncle Ford?” he whispered, so as not to disturb anyone from their sleep. The old man was surprised to see him standing there and said as much, telling the boy to get some sleep. “I can’t. There’s something I gotta tell you first.” Dipper broke eye contact and hugged himself. “After Bill attacked us, you told me to take your journals and run, but I didn’t. I tried to fight him. I lost and…” He trembled and winced as if speaking the words hurt him, physically. “Bill destroyed your journals. All three of them, and it’s all my fault.” He was trying so hard not to cry, but speaking the truth stung.

            Ford slowly replaced the book he had picked up off his desk and put a hand on Dipper’s shoulder. When the boy didn’t look up at him, Ford dropped to one knee. “Dipper, you and your sister have shown such amazing bravery, such love and strength as I have never seen in another human being, well, until today, perhaps,” he added and smiled on the sleeping form of his own twin. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to help you when you needed me the most. Those days of wandering around alone and lost in an apocalypse were terrible for you. I know. I’ve had a few myself. You did what you had to do and I would never judge you for it.”

            Dipper blushed but shook his head. “But your research…!”

            Ford pouted and pulled him into a hug. “Damn my research. I know what’s important to me, now. I can replace my work. I can’t replace my family.”

            At last the boy’s muscles relaxed and he hung limp in his uncle’s arms, draped over his shoulder, crying with relief as quietly as he could into his sweater. Ford hugged him for a little while, then made sure that he was alright now and told him to lie down and get some sleep.

            “You too,” Dipper commanded with a crooked and pleading smile.

            Ford breathed a sigh and relented and, for the first time in he couldn’t remember how long, Stanford Pines slept solidly through the night and into the dawn.

 

.x.

            Two things caught Ford off guard when he woke the next day. One, the fingers of his left hand were intertwined with his brothers, and two, the device strapped to his right wrist was vibrating. Its urgency rendered him unable to enjoy Stan’s unconscious intimacy and he cursed under his breath. Quickly (and grudgingly) he freed his left hand and tapped to see what the alert was telling him. He cursed again and nudged his brother awake. His heart twisted for a moment, fearing that perhaps Stan would be too disoriented to be of help right away.

            “Mmm, Ford?” Stan muttered. “Whassamatter? World ending again?” he asked groggily.

            Ford let a breath he’d been holding out. “Perimeter alarm. I’m going to check it out. Protect the kids,” he ordered.

            Stan frowned and almost protested, but glancing at the sleeping children, illuminated by a nearby bank of pale blue LED lights, he changed his mind and nodded in agreement.

 

            They slept on as Stan waited for his brother to return. Being awoken to the words ‘perimeter alarm’ threw him for a loop and his mind reeled as he tried to grasp the situation. _‘My name is Stanley Pines. Stanford is my brother. Dipper and Mabel are Shermy’s grandkids. They are the reason I get up in the morning. I’m underground, second floor,’_ he told himself. _‘The room I could never get in before. Not as spooky as I thought it would be. Kids are safe. Sleeping still. Dreaming maybe. About a happier time… Everything hurts. Where’s Ford? Is he taking too long? Did he really tell me he loved me last night? That was a thing that really happened, wasn’t it? Was it? Maybe I only thought I heard it? He cried so hard. I’m never gonna let that happen again. Not. Once. More.’_ Stan stiffened as he heard the elevator descend and only relaxed once he saw the thumbs-up.

            “It’s about to get very loud upstairs,” Ford said, grinning. “Kids, time to get up. The sun is rising and the day is wasting!”

            Dipper and Mabel groaned but woke fairly quickly, spurred on by the strangeness of their environment.

            Stan made a face and tried to put the nagging question out of his mind. _‘Did I hear Ford right or not? Did he say it, or is this junker of a brain playing tricks on me?’_ “What’s goin’ on? Why’s it gonna get loud?”

            Ford gave them a toothy grin. “Come upstairs and find out!”

 

            The scene that greeted the Pines family left them dumbstruck. The tattered house was filled with gnomes, unicorns, manotaurs, and other magical beings, each of which carried a saw or hammer or other tools. They stared at the family for a beat before the manotaur called Chutzpar shouted “There he is!” and pointed at Stan.

            Stan took a step back and put his hands up. “Hey, it was like that when I got there!”

            The manotaur simply laughed and before Ford could warn him, scooped Stan up and planted him on his shoulders. His head nearly hit the ceiling. “Behold, the Hero of Gravity Falls!!”

            The crowd cheered. Stan blinked, then puffed out his chest. “Oh, right. That’s me!”

            Dave the Gnome doffed his conical hat to him (and Ford whipped a notebook from his pocket and furiously jotted down notes). “Hero, we the denizens of this wood wish to do honor by you and restore your abode, which served as a mighty fighting machine in the great battle against the One-Eyed Terror.”

            Stan seemed to mull this over for a brief second before responding with a flat “knock yourselves out.”

            Another cheer resounded and work commenced on repairing the Mystery Shack.

 

            Mabel and Dipper set up a campsite in the yard so they could rest and continue to feed Stan memories while the work was being done. Once the sun was up, Soos arrived and pitched in, relieving Ford as foreman. “You should be with the kids. They leave soon and you didn’t get as much time with them as I did,” he said.

            Ford frowned, nodded, and thanked the young man. He had only taken a few steps toward the little breakfast picnic Mabel had organized for them when another alert sent a pulse up his arm. “What now?” he grumbled and pulled up the 3D screen. “Oh, that’s new…” Ford looked up from the display to his family. Stan beckoned him to come sit with them and he very nearly did, but his curiosity was too great. “Just a minute!” he called as brightly as he could, gave them a false grin, turned and marched back to the basement.

            It took a little while to get the necessary equipment functioning again, but soon he’d pinpointed the source of the anomaly wave. A dot on a blue, glowing map pinged in the arctic. He downloaded the coordinates to his wristbrain and set a program to scan the area for fluctuations. Once this was accomplished, he knew he should head back up and sit with his family, but now his curiosity burned inside him like napalm. “I’m going to have to go,” he whispered. “What will I do about Stan? He wouldn’t want to leave this place, his friends, his life…” Ford crossed the lab to a file cabinet where he leafed through folders and found one marked ‘misc. lost items.’ From it he withdrew a tattered photograph of two boys on a dilapidated boat. “Would he?” Ford sighed and just before he closed the drawer, something he didn’t recognize caught his attention. Toward the front were three pendaflex folders full of bright, white paper. “What’s this?” he wondered, and pulled out the first folder.


	3. Chapter 3

            By the time Ford emerged from the basement it was nearly noon and the restoration was proceeding at a good pace. Smaller creatures scampered around the second floor while larger ones hauled in supplies and braced support beams. An occasional glittering pulse of magical light emanated from here and there as the wallpaper was patched or the linoleum was smoothed out. Soos had a good handle on telling them where things should go, but not so much the intricate inner workings of Ford’s custom/alien infrastructure. Ford had to take a deep breath and count to ten and remind himself that he could handle whatever needed to be fixed, later. The important thing to accomplish was to make the structure safe enough to house his family.

 

            His family was not pleased with him for taking so long when he finally returned to the picnic blanket in the yard almost an hour later. Stan sat cross-legged, indignant and pouty. Mabel was irritated enough to push him to the ground and sit on his chest proclaiming that she wasn’t going to let him up for three hours at least. Ford laughed, gasped for breath and promised not to budge and she let him go. Dipper pretended to be concentrating on writing in a wire-bound steno pad until Ford put his hand on his shoulder and he flinched. “Dipper, my boy. I have something important to show you, and you too, Stan,” Ford said and pulled a satchel he’d brought with him into his lap. “Dipper told me that Bill destroyed my Journals, and though the loss of six years of research is regrettable, I was just glad that Dipper didn’t get killed in the process.” He reached out and this time Dipper didn’t flinch as he ruffled his hair. “I was impressed by his courage--by both of you kids and what you did while I was petrified and useless.”

            Stan blinked at him, not quite understanding what he meant by ‘petrified’ and not at all sure where he was going with this.

            “I don’t know why you did it, Stanley, and I hate to sound like a broken record, but…” Ford pulled three manila folders full of paper from his bag. “You saved me again!” He handed the papers to Dipper.

            The boy’s hands shook as he opened the first folder. “Shut… up!!” he cried. “Stan! You copied the journals?!”

            “Whoa!” Mabel cheered. “Grunkle Stan you just made Dipper’s _year!!”_

            Stan blinked some more. “I did what now?”

            To better show him, Dipper passed him the copies of Journal Number One. “You made photocopies of Ford’s journals! I don’t believe it!”

            Stan flipped through the pages and his eyes grew intense. “This damned thing…” he grumbled, visions of long hours spent over decades studying his brother’s cryptic scribblings coming back to him in a sickening wave. “Ford... Jesus,” he muttered. The memory of the very first time he held the first journal in his hands flashed through his mind. “I almost destroyed it, holy Moses. When did I…?” The years shifted forward in his mind in an incongruous mess. He saw himself bending over the copier late one evening only a little while ago, muttering that he might as well copy all three of them now that he had them in case ‘the kid’ wanted a set after he got Ford back. “Hey, yeah. After I got the third one from Dipper, I copied them. Heh. So, that’s a good thing, huh?”

            Dipper laughed and hugged the papers to his chest. “Yes!” He beamed at Ford. “Now you can recreate them!”

            Stan chuckled darkly. “Maybe less invisible ink and cuckoo crazy-pants scrawl this time, huh, Sixer?” he said, hooking a thumb at the third set of copies in Dipper’s arms.

            Ford rubbed the back of his neck. “Haha, yeah.” He kept a thin smile tacked firmly on his face. As much as the crack stung, Stan was right. There would be no need to document his descent into madness a second time. “Well, that’s a project for another day,” he took the copies back, slipped them into his bag and quickly thought of a change of subject. “So, wanna hear about the time our brother Sherman hung us up on the coatrack by our shorts?”

            Mabel boggled. “What? Grampa bullied you?!” she screamed.

            Stan laughed. “You kiddin? All the time!”

            “He's a lot older than we are…” Ford tried to explain and defend their older brother.

            “...And Ford and me were so close,” Stan added. “And he wasn’t around much. He enlisted in what? Sixty-nine?”

            “Sixty-eight”

            “Right. So we didn't see much of him. He was nice--just teased us little kids.” Stan scrunched his face up a little in what they all now recognized as the expression he made while trying to place a strange memory. “Am I remembering right that mom had to take care of _his_ kid? There was a baby in the house...”

            Ford shifted his weight and played with the clasp on his satchel. “Yes, when Nancy was in the hospital.”

            Stan’s smile fell. He stared at his brother’s hand as it twiddled with the piece of metal. Although the kids didn’t, he recognized the tell--Ford was embarrassed about something. He frowned and stared at the plaid pattern of the blanket they sat on. The memories were still hazy, and it seemed the more painful the memory, the harder it was to crystalize. “Was that right about when we were seniors…?” he asked.

            Mabel clenched her teeth and shot a sad look in her brother’s direction. He mirrored her expression and they both held their breath. No one wanted to tell Stan about that particular time. No one wanted to break the happy bubble that they had been living in for the last day or so, regaling him of fun summer memories. But someone would have to do it, and they all knew it was coming.

            Ford cleared his throat. “We can talk about old times any time, Stan. For now, you should get as much information as you can from Dipper and Mabel.” There was an awkward pause. Ford racked his brain for something to say that wouldn’t make the mood even more gloomy. Failing that, he resorted to the truth. He lay back on the blanket and watched the clouds cross the sky above him. His body still ached from all it had been through in the last week but he did his best to relax on the hard ground. “We say goodbye to them in less than forty-eight hours.”


	4. Chapter 4

            Later that afternoon, Wendy dropped by to check in on ‘her peeps’ and learned what had happened to Stan at the conclusion of the battle to Take Back the Falls. Though she was horrified, she quickly joined once she saw how well he was retaining the memories being fed to him.

            By sunset, all but a small section of roof on the back side of the shack had been repaired and it looked (aesthetically, at least) as good as new, better even than it had before Weirdmageddon began. The Pines family thanked their magical friends and they slipped off into the encroaching darkness.

            “Woo!” Mabel cried and dramatically wiped her brow. “I didn’t do anything but sit around, talk, and eat all day, but I am _beat!”_

            “I guess we’re still recovering,” her brother agreed. “Great Uncle Ford’s been napping almost all day.” Dipped pointed lazily toward the sleeping scientist, curled on his side on the blanket in the middle of the lawn. Dew was starting to form on the grass and Stan nudged him to tell him as much.

            “I can’t believe we only have one more day…” Mabel hung her head and Wendy hugged her.

            “You gotta hold tight to the time you have so you can carry it with you,” she said, squeezing her shoulders. She got up and stretched. “Well, I’ll see you dorks tomorrow. Get some rest!” As she got on her bike and began to pedal away, Soos lumbered to catch up with her on his way to his truck. Dipper wondered what it was he was whispering to her but was suddenly distracted by his great uncle’s shouting.

            “Hey, it’s ok, Sixer! It’s just me!” Stan barked. “Man, you were really gone, weren’t ya?” He laughed, but his tone was flat and anxious.

            “Stan…” Ford asserted and gawked at the arm that had nudged him, clenched tightly in his grip. Horrified by his own reaction, he quickly released him. “Did I hurt you?”

            Stan made a face. “Nah. You just seemed like you didn’t know where you were for a sec. Thought that was _my_ job!” he chuckled and kept a steadying hand on his shoulder.

            Ford looked up at him and laughed uncomfortably as well. “Right. Sorry, Stanley.”

            Dipper turned to face his own twin and was not surprised to see her wring her hands as she watched the two old men carefully.

 

.x.

            After a pleasant dinner of delivery pizza (two large pies, one pepperoni, one with roasted red peppers, spinach, and mushrooms with a big salad, breadsticks, and soda--‘a real feast!’ Stan had barked into the phone at the girl taking his order), the family settled down to bed in their reconstructed house. Dipper and Mabel found that the attic, too, was in almost better shape than they recalled, however, some of Ford’s things that Stan had stashed in the corners were missing or broken, and the birds’ nests, dust, and moss had not survived the transition from house-to battle mecha-to house again. Mabel was a little disappointed that Daryl, her favorite moldy spot, had been wiped clean by some industrious and well-intentioned gnome. But their beds were repaired and looked incredibly inviting and before long, they were ready to get some rest. Though their bodies still needed it, their minds worked overtime now that the day’s distractions were gone. There was one subject neither of them wanted to discuss and any time it reared its ugly head one of them would change the subject.

            “I hope I can find all of my stuff…” Dipper muttered as he got changed. His sister brushed her hair, facing the wall. She cringed.

            “Dipper, do you think Grunkle Ford has PTSD?” she asked.

            He pouted, mulling this suggestion over. “You mean, because he woke up and grabbed Grunkle Stan? I don’t know. Probably? I’d be surprised if _we_ don’t have it after everything we’ve been through!” he exclaimed and told her it was safe to turn around.

            Mabel laughed. “Yeah, _right._ Only soldiers get that! I was thinking he got it when he was in the portal.”

            Dipper sighed. “I think anyone who goes through ‘traumatic stress’ can get PTSD, Mabel.”

            “Oh, right…” she deflated and flopped down on her bed. “So, we could be scarred for life, huh?”

            “Probably.” Dipper shrugged. “Maybe junior high school will be so traumatic we won’t even think about the bad stuff that happened this summer!”

            “Ha. Yeah,” Mabel half-heartedly agreed and looked to the suitcase the foot of her bed, yet unpacked, but waiting. In the scant down-time they had experienced after Dipper, Wendy, and Soos rescued her from her bubble, she and her brother talked about her feelings, about the challenges they had yet to face, and how daunting it all seemed (high school then being the least of their concern), but how they would face any challenges together. They would be ok. She remembered this conversation they had that night while building the Shack-a-tron and it comforted her again. She breathed a calming sigh and snuggled into the covers. “Dipper, do you think they’ll be ok?”

            “Who?”

            “Stan and Ford, duh.”

            He looked at the ceiling as if searching for an answer. “I think so? I mean, they ‘hugged it out’ last night, I guess. Stan seems to be getting his memories back pretty well and Ford seems to have reconnected with him. And they were laughing and stuff today.”

            “Yeah, but they got pretty close to talking about bad stuff and Ford changed the subject.”

            Dipper rolled over and faced her. “Well, yeah. That’s gotta be some pretty personal stuff…”

            “But it’s stuff we know about. Why didn’t he want to talk about it in front of us?”

            “I dunno,” he shrugged. “Maybe there’s more to it.”

            They chatted a little while longer, trying to decide how best to spend the next day (not once referring to it as their ‘last’) in Gravity Falls.

 

.x.

            Downstairs, Ford finished repairing a circuit breaker, closed the panel with a satisfying click, and smiled. “This old house’ll be ship-shape in no time. I’m amazed at what Fiddleford was able to do on such short notice, and impressed as well, but _jeez_ there’s a lot of stuff that needs repairing.”

            “Yeah. He was pretty great,” Stan muttered. “Unlike me…” A memory of his obstenence and hurt feelings that prevented him from helping to rescue his brother from Bill bubbled up and he bit his tongue. _‘Not. Once. More,’_ he thought.

            “What was that?”

            “Nothin’.” Stan shook his head and looked at the clock. It was already well past ten. “Say, uh… Ford. This is gonna sound weird but, can you, uh… sleep with me tonight? I mean sleep in _my room!_ Not, ha, y’know, with _me,_ just I’m still a little shaky on this whole lost-my-memory thing and…”

            Ford answered without hesitation. “Of course.”

 

            They wrangled a twin-sized mattress and bedding into Stan’s room and Stan apologized for having taken his brother’s former bedroom for his own, explaining that it was the one with the wood stove in it. With Stan’s back turned to him, Ford cringed as his own words of a month prior echoed in his head. _‘You give me my house back, you give me my name back, and this Mystery Shack junk is over, forever. You got it?’_ Perhaps Stan had forgotten that exchange? If he could, Ford would try to make sure he _never_ remembered it. Earlier, they had come dangerously close to talking about 1972--the year their father kicked Stanley out of the house, the year Ford turned his back on Stan and shut him out of his life, believing that he and his intense and forbidden passion for him were holding him back. Three decades living far from a world that shunned such taboos had changed his mind about that, and there were times when Ford ached for his brother’s embrace. There were times when he cursed his name, as well. And when he saw the portal open--when he knew what Stanley had done, despite his warnings--he’d been livid and any love he felt for Stan was pushed back down under layers of bitterness and pride. The chance, now, to start over was tempting, and Stan’s elevated status to ‘hero’ had secured his confidence, rendering him positively radiant in Ford’s eyes. Despite all this, Ford dreaded opening that door. If he initiated a conversation about their relationship’s past and possible future, he invited hurtful memories of the worst kind. Ford watched his brother disrobe and resigned himself. If keeping the truth from him would ultimately make Stan happy, he’d be more than willing to be his brother and best friend, and nothing more.

            “The study is fine for me, Stanley. You should keep this room. This is as much your house as it is mine.”

            “But didn’t you…?” Stan wondered, bits of a night not long ago filtering in. He shook his head “Oh, ok, Ford,” he replied hazily and unbuttoned his shirt. He watched his brother remove his boots and trench coat. Stan stripped to his usual tank-and-boxer combo and pulled the covers down. “You’re not gonna sleep in your clothes, are ya?” he asked him.

            Ford shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

            “I probably got something you could wear…”

            “I’d rather not,” he replied quickly.

            “So my duds not good enough for ya?” Stan teased, hoping he’d change his mind.

            Ford sighed. “Fine.” Stan tossed him a t-shirt that read ‘Gravity Malls Grand Opening ‘86’ and a pair of sweatpants, but Ford just stood there and looked away.

            “What? You shy? I seen you naked before, Sixer.”

            “No, I’m waiting until you turn off the lights.”

            Stan laughed at him. “You want me to avert my eyes? Come off it.”

            “Damn it, Stanley, I just don’t want you to see the shape I’m in!”

            “So you got some bruises--can’t be nearly as ugly as I look a on daily basis.”

            “I’m trying to protect you from this.”

            Stan’s brows raised, but he scoffed. “From some black and blue marks? _Please...”_

            Ford’s fists shook. “From _all_ of this ugliness! My scars and…all the _ugly truths._ Keeping these things out of your mind is the only thing I can do to come close to making up for causing most of your misfortunes.”

            Stan frowned and rolled his eyes. “Oh here we go…” he growled angrily and his brother took an apprehensive step back. “You wanna nail yourself to the cross, do ya? You think you’re the only one who hates himself for the things he’s done? For the last couple days I been prayin’ that half the crap that’s been comin’ back to me is a nightmare. But I know it’s not. It’s all real. And it’s _mine._ It’s what makes me, _me._ I know what I am _now_ , but I don’t know how I _got_ here. I know I have a family that loves me, but that I didn’t get it by default. I know that I _earned_ it. Don’t you dare keep a thing from me, Ford. I want it all back so I can make sense of it--own it all--so I can be me again.”

            Ford took a deep breath. _‘...eight, nine, ten,’_ he thought, and was filled with a sense of pride that he had actually calmed himself down in the face of his brother’s obstenence. “That’s not it. Not entirely. You see, Stan, I’ve had to be rescued by you so many times that I just wanted, for once, to be the one to protect _you._ ”

            Stan could have used to count to fifty in his head, but this was not something that had ever occurred to him to do. His face flushed red and a vein stood out on his temple. “Damn it Poindexter, I’ll rescue you a million times over if I have to!”

            It was as if Stan threw a rock into the still pond of Ford’s calmed mind. “You are not listening to me!” he growled and ran his hands through his hair. “But if you’re going to use a crucifixion metaphor, I may as well indulge you!”

            A moment after he pulled his sweater off, Ford’s heart sank with the realization that once again, he’d acted out in frustration and anger and done something terrible that he could never repair. His brother’s face fell and he took an unsteady step towards Ford, one hand reaching out, shaking slightly. His mouth hung open, unable to form words. There were bandages wrapped around Ford’s wrists and neck where Bill’s manacles had burned him. A huge bruise reached around from his back to his ribs where a column had fallen on him on the first day and a plethora of other bruises dotted his skin--his deeply and copiously scarred skin.

            “What… happened…?”

            Ford tried to look away from Stan’s devastated face. He wanted to turn back the clock. He wanted to run. He wanted to die. He managed to choke out three words: “Time. Distance. Bill.”

            “Bill…” Stan repeated, hazily. “I killed him, right?”

            Ford managed to hold back his tears. “That you did.”

            “Too bad,” Stan muttered. “Right now, I wanna murder him.” The two stood in awkward silence for several moments until Stan let out a long sigh. “You get the bed.”

            Stunned, Ford looked up. “What…?”

            “I don’t wanna hear another word about it. Get some sleep,” Stan growled softly and carefully lowered his old bones onto the mattress on the floor. When Ford stammered in protest he shouted at him. “Shut the fuck up and go to bed! You got a lot goin’ for you. Always have. The only thing I got is protecting my family. Deal with it.” He pulled the itchy wool blanket over himself and turned away to face the door. “Good night!”

            In a voice torn somewhere between crying and laughing, Ford replied “good night,” and did as he was told.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who had kind words for this story. I'm pretty proud of this one, especially the ham sandwich scene that snuck its way in to this chapter... I hope you enjoy it!

            Somewhere around three in the morning, Ford woke from an uneasy dream. As he mulled over its surreal contents, he was pleasantly reminded that the dream was his own and that Bill had nothing to do with it. A vague and quickly fleeting vision of a tea party with people that looked like stuffed animals of themselves complaining about cold tea quickly dissipated. To his left, his brother sawed wood, seemingly unaffected by having to sleep on the floor. Ford stared at the ceiling and listened to Stan's breath, measuring it against his own and relishing each loud, obnoxious, glorious inhale. _‘The only thing I got is protecting my family. Deal with it!’_ Stan’s words echoed in his mind. He had been so angry, but at the same time desperate to continue to protect him.

            A month ago when he stepped back through the portal, Ford had found himself extremely disconcerted by being thrust back into his old life. There were days when he wished he could jump back in--to run away from the agony of facing his brother with a heart clouded by the poison of anger and resentment. But the world needed saving. It had been a good excuse to ignore his own feelings for an entire month. Now, the world was saved but _Stan_ was the hero. What was _he?_ The problem. The error. The extra digit. His own overinflated hubris had brought about Weirdmageddon--for was it not he who first summoned Bill? He who had put his own ambition and curiosity above all else? What could he destroy next, if he’d already had a go at the entire universe? Stan would _never_ have done such a thing. Stan knew what was important. Why Ford was still so important to him after everything he’d done, he could not fathom.

            Ford’s thoughts spiraled out of control and he felt his eyes start to burn and his breath shorten, but just then Stan turned in his sleep, uttering a much louder snore than before and it snapped him out of it. His brother wanted him there. His brother wanted to protect him, even still. Even as the bad memories were returning. Because Stan loved him.

            “Ford, you ok?” Stan asked, sleepily.

            “Y-yes. Why?”

            “Thought I heard you cryin’.” He sat up and rubbed his eyes.

            Was he fully awake? Was he just remembering a scene oft-repeated in their younger days? He wanted to lie and tell him no, to go back to sleep, to never mind him, but instead, Ford rolled over.     “Stan? Do you remember what I did to you?”

            “What _you_ did to _me?”_ he asked. “Pretty sure it was the other way around.”

            Ford smiled wide, the tears really flowing now. “Stan?”

            “Yeah?”

            “I’ll never turn my back on you again. I promise.”

            He heard a quick gasp coming from the man on the floor. “I know,” Stan said sweetly. “Go back to sleep, Sixer.”

 

.x.

            Stan woke a little late and let his brother sleep on, nestled comfortably, his mouth slightly open, gently snoring. He put on his robe and slinked out the door, slowly closing it behind him. Just before he clicked it shut, he looked up and down the hallway to make sure it was clear and whispered ‘love you’ to the lump in his bed.

            With a goofy grin on his face, Stan ambled toward the kitchen where he heard the voices of his niece, nephew, and handyman, already up for breakfast.

            They greeted him happily and Stan ruffled their hair and wished them a happy thirteenth birthday. When he asked them what they were going to do on their big day, they said they had been invited to their friend Pacifica’s house at eleven for lunch and would be back by two. Stan waved a hand and suggested maybe they could throw something together for them and suddenly Soos cut him off, offering to cook breakfast for him. Stan frowned and swiped the spatula out of his hand, grumbling that he wasn’t an invalid and he would cook for everyone so sit down and shut your yaps about it. He then hummed an off-key tune and started the pancakes. Soos sighed with relief to see his boss back to his old self, and, as an added bonus, happy. He offered to take the kids over to Pacifica’s when they were ready and Stan didn’t protest.

 

.x.

            Soos dropped the kids off at the front steps of Northwest Manor and said he’d be back at two sharp, then peeled out of the driveway, leaving rubber tire marks behind. They laughed at his antics and ascended the steps where they were surprised to find Pacifica herself opening the door. “Yeah, I know,” she said, letting them in. “There’s a lot going on right now.”

            The halls of the manor seemed vacant. Not one servant attended to them as Pacifica led them toward the kitchen. She explained that her father had lost a huge amount of his wealth thanks to a bad investment deal spurred on by Bill, and although everything that Weirdmageddon had ruined was restored, because the deal was made directly with Bill, it stuck. The manor would be put on the market tomorrow and she would live with her parents in their three-thousand-square-foot ‘bungalow’ on the other side of town. The Pines twins were shocked to hear it, but Dipper thought that it made sense. The Shack had also not been restored when it the battle was over and had to be repaired manually, perhaps because of its interaction directly with Bill himself.

            “I can’t have someone make you lunch because we had to let all of our staff go. We have to get it ourselves, but I wanted to see you,” she said and opened the door to a massive commercial-grade kitchen full of gleaming stainless steel appliances and countertops. "I’ve _literally_ never been in here before,” she explained. “I hope there’s food. I don’t know where it’s kept, though…” she said and looked around.

            Mabel pointed with her thumb toward the large, steel unit behind her “You could proooobably start with the fridge,” she explained, awkwardly.

            “Really? That’s a refrigerator? They don’t look like that on TV…” Pacifica folded her arms and looked away.

            Realizing that her words had come out a touch snarky, Mabel stepped close to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Yours is industrial-sized, that’s why. It’s ok. You don’t know much about normal-people things, we know that.”

            Dipper nodded. “Yeah, your parents kept you sheltered, is all. You’ll figure stuff out, eventually.”

            “Oh my god, you guys,” Pacifica said, clenching her fists. “This is exactly why I needed to see you.” She hung her head and took a deep breath. “I wanted to apologize to you.”

            Dipper and Mabel looked to each other, puzzled, and Dipper chuckled uncomfortably. “Why?”

She scuffed a ballet slippered foot across the unglazed tile floor. “Mabel, you’ve always been so kind to me even when I was horrible to you.”

            Mabel grimaced, exposing her braces and tried to gloss over the confession. “Yeah, what was up with that? I mean, I’m _amazing!”_

            “You _are._ And I’m jealous of you.”

            “What?!” the twins both shouted.

            Pacifica lifted her head. “It’s true! You’re comfortable with who you are, you have true friends, and a family who loves you. Bullies just want to make themselves seem better than the person they’re jealous of. I see that now, and I’m sorry.”

            Mabel whispered her name, astounded and unsure of what to do or say in response.

            “And Dipper, you believed in me when I didn’t value myself at all, even after I mocked you and treated you like you were nothing to me. You stood up for me and gave me strength. You two are my only real friends. What am I gonna do without you?”

            Mabel pursed her lips and looked to her brother. He nodded. “Keep growing. You’ve come a long way, Pacifica, and we’re only a skype session away until next summer.”

            Mabel nodded. “What he said!”

            Pacifica’s lower lip trembled and tears streamed down her face. “I will! I want to be the kind of person who deserves to have your friendship!”

            In one clumsy, awkward motion, they both launched themselves at her. “You are!” they said, hugged her tightly and Pacifica bawled into their shoulders for a good while.

            When she had calmed and Dipper found her some paper towels to blow her nose with, Mabel told her to ‘cop a squat’ and that they would make lunch for her. Dipper made sure to vocalize what he was doing as he built a ham sandwich, something she’d never seen anyone do outside of the movies. He suggested she give it a try and she recoiled and said she’d just watch. “It’s such a simple, stupid thing,” she said, fidgeting on her stool. “This is going to sound _so dumb,_ but I’m actually... scared...”

            “No it’s not!” Mabel cried, sort of slamming the plate of completed sandwiches down on the table. “Life is scary! It’s ok to be scared!”

            “Yeah, but over a _ham sandwich?!”_

            “Your ham sandwich is just as valid as anyone else’s!” She shouted. “Do not let anyone make you feel that you shouldn’t be scared--that you should be stronger. You _will_ be stronger, but in the meantime, things are scary. The unknown, a new life, a new house, making a sandwich for the first time ever, having to leave your friends behind, or your friends leaving _you_ behind, it’s _totally terrifying._ It’s ok to be scared.” Mabel smiled. “I’m scared as all get-out about the future, but I know it’ll get better.”

            Dipper blinked at the two of them, stunned for a moment by the intensity his sister displayed. “Mabel’s right. I’ve got my share of ‘ham sandwiches’, too.” He picked up a half of one and took a huge bite. “But I’m workin’ on it!” he mumbled around it.

            Mabel beamed at her brother then mimicked his action, stuffing almost an entire half in her face and mumbled excitedly “Yeah! Take that, sandwich!”

            Pacifica looked from one twin to the other, blinking in disbelief for a moment, then burst out laughing. When she recovered, she demurely took a bite. It was the best tasting ham sandwich she had ever had.

 

.x.

            Promptly at two, Soos honked his horn and Dipper and Mabel said goodbye to their friend, promising to text, email, and skype (and Mabel suggested they astral-project to each other as well). The distance to the shack wasn’t long, but the drive seemed to go on forever. Mabel sighed and leaned against the window.

            Dipper put his hand on her shoulder. “Hey, why don’t we drop in on Grenda and Candy?” he offered quietly.

            Soos opened his mouth to protest, but Mabel groaned and knocked her head against the glass. “That’s right, you don’t know… When I went around inviting folks to our party, they said they weren’t going to be here! Grenda’s sailing the Mediterranean or something with Maaaariuuuuuus and Candy’s parents shipped her off to band camp!”

            “Oh man, that sucks!” Soos said loudly.

            “You bet your Sweet Aunt Bippy it does!” Mabel agreed. “I did get to hang out with them while we were fighting, so that’s good?” She made an uncomfortable face. “Not really the last thing I wanted to do with my besties, though. I really wanted our thirteenth birthday to be _special.”_ She slumped down on the bench seat until she was practically on the floor.

            “Aw come on, dudes, I bet we’ll have a sweet time anyway!” Soos chimed as he turned onto Gopher Road. “I’m sure we can get a little something together. Ya know, not anything major-rager, but awesome and fun, with like, balloons and cake and stuff? ‘Course, I can’t come close to being as awesome to you as you were to me. You gave me my birthday back, and I’ll always be in your debt for it.”

            “Aw, Soos,” Dipper blushed a little. “It wasn’t _that_ big a deal…”

            “Dipper. We fought in _Globnar_ for him, remember?”

            “Oh, heh. Right.”

            Soos grinned to split his face as they approached the Mystery Shack. “Well, I hope this comes close, anyway.”

            As the truck pulled into the driveway, Dipper and Mabel gasped and leaned forward, stunned by the sight. The shack was decorated with balloons and streamers, and practically everyone they knew was gathered around the museum entrance waving and cheering. Mabel screeched with delight and launched herself across the seat at Soos, hugging and play-hitting him fiercely. Her brother was caught between them and he laughed as he struggled to avoid being pummeled. They all spilled out of the truck and the crowd assembled cried ‘happy birthday’ in greeting.

            “Candy?! Grenda?!!” Mabel screamed and tackled them. “Soos! You are the best!!”

            He pumped his fist in victory. “Yyyyyyus! Nailed it!”

            Dipper scanned the crowd of friends and acquaintances and raised a brow. “Pacifica?!”

            “Yeah, I was totally in on it.” She winked at him. “I meant what I said, though.”

 

            Their great uncles stood at the top of the steps in front of a birthday cake Soos had run to get after he dropped them off at Northwest Manor and watched the children greet their friends. Stan sniffled and Ford noticed. “Are you alright, Stanley?” he asked.

            “Yeah,” he answered, sheepishly. “There’s somethin’ important I can’t remember, but I think I know why.”

            Ford turned to face him and his heart twisted with sympathy. Of all the times for a bad memory to come to the surface. “What is it?”

            “When’s our birthday?”

            Ford clenched his jaw but adhered to his promise. “June eighteenth.”

            Stan took a deep breath and looked out at the joy around them. “This is the first time in forty years I’ve looked forward to that day.” He smiled.

            Ford briefly rested his hand on his back. “Me, too.” When Stan turned to face him, his eyes lit up, even brighter than they had been observing his precious niece and nephew enjoy their party. Ford nodded, silently making up his mind. He opened his mouth to ask Stan a question but was cut off as Soos brought the kids up to the deck to cut the cake. It wasn’t until a few minutes later, after Dipper and Mabel had given their sweet little speeches and were digging into unwrapping a pile of presents, that Ford found another opportunity.

            While everyone was distracted with cake, Ford put his hand on his brother’s shoulder and asked him to speak with him, privately, explaining once they were around the corner of the shack and out of hearing range that they had a problem.

            “Weirdmageddon has been contained, but I’m detecting some strange new anomalies near the Arctic Ocean. I want to go investigate, but I think I might be too old to go it alone…”

            “Are you sayin’ you need someone to help you sail around the world on the adventure of a lifetime?” Stan raised his brows, hopefully.

            Ford reached into the inner breast pocket of his coat. “I don’t just want _someone_ to come with me, Stanley… I want it to be _you.”_ He handed Stan a torn photograph of two little boys on a derelict sailboat. Two boys from a happier time with nothing but high hopes for a future of fun and wonder for them to discover together. His voice softened. “Will you give me a second chance?”

            Stan took the photo in both hands and stared at it, wide-eyed.

            “Stanley?” Ford repeated.

            When he looked up, Stan’s eyes glistened with tears. “Ford…” he breathed. “Me and you… Are you sure?”

            “Quite. I never want to be without you again.”

            Stan’s lower lip trembled and a picture crystallized, made up of bits of memories that had drifted on the edges of his mind for the last few days. A six-fingered hand, fingers laced through his five. His chin brushing against soft, brown hair. The creak of deck boards under their weight. A nose, lips and lightly stubbled chin nuzzling into his collar and warm breath whispering his name. As the picture became clear, Stan swiftly pulled his brother into a tight embrace, but Ford stiffened and gasped. _‘Oh, no,’_ Stan thought in a millisecond. _‘Was I wrong? But these are memories, aren’t they? We made them, together, didn’t we…?!’_ He released him and began to apologize, but Ford’s eyes were half-lidded, heavy with relief and happiness. _‘We did!’_ Stan couldn’t help himself. He took his brother’s face in his hands and planted a firm kiss on his lips.

            Ford’s eyes squeezed shut as his endorphins ignited. He leaned in and reciprocated, pressing harder, tongue reaching out, meeting Stan’s. The passion of the kiss seemed to startle them both until the more sensible of the two came to his senses pulled away and blinked a few times.

            “Whoa,” Ford breathed.

            Stan grinned deviously. “So I _am_ remembering that right.”

            Ford nodded. “Yes, yes you are,” he said quietly, gave a small, crooked smile and blushed. “But perhaps not with the best _timing.”_ He nodded toward the sound of the crowd of people on the other side of the building.

            “Heh, right. Don’t wanna scandalize the guy married to the woodpecker.” Ford laughed and Stan smiled so hard at the sound that his face hurt. He and his brother were going to go adventuring together and after forty long years of waiting, his dream was coming true. He could certainly wait a little longer to kiss him with abandon. “So, we’re ok now, right? No matter what else comes floating up from the past?”

            “Yes.”

            “And we get to be happy?”

            “Yes!”

            “You think we’ll find treasure… and _babes?”_ he asked, arching a cheeky brow, quoting his nine-year-old self, certain that his soulmate would get the reference.

            Ford gave a slightly exasperated sigh but laughed, grinned and lightly punched his arm. “I’d say there’s a high probability.”

 

**END**


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